Love in America

In the Salt Marsh: Poems (2004)

When I paid for my flowers, six white roses,the florist, Mrs. Abdoo, said, “Is thisyour saint´s day?”She admired the gown Ifd made in secret.It brushed my knees, a white cotton dressI´d wear for everyday after this weddingwith no priest to bless us, without my fatherto give me away.

I´d give myself away to my first love,photographer and grandson of the bestharness maker in Uppsala who sailedto the New World and Detroit, where few lovedthe sleek flesh and loyalty of horsesclop-clopping towards death. Fleshis a poor investment. “What blessed weatherfor your day,” said Mrs. Abdoo, puttinga small box in my hands. “A wedding gift.Open it together.”

The white house of the justice of the peacein Mabbettsville, New York, smelled of fresh paint.His wife opened the door.A black-and-white TV played Nixon´s face.Behind her, I caught sight of an old manin bedroom slippers, sweeping the kitchen floor.She asked if we´d brought extra witnesses.”We need one more.”

She called to the mailman. He agreed to serve.My love and I sat on the sofa, waiting.The justice changed into his marrying clothes:a tie printed with small basset hounds,a navy vest, and chocolate wing-tipped shoes.Two continents away, we strafed a shoreI´d never heard of. Cut to the president:“We seek no wider war.”

The justice said, “Turn that thing off.” His wifeswitched off the sound. “Do you take this manh-My love and I gave promises and rings.Nixon kept making faces: Love won´t save you!Outside, we opened our first gift: this picture.Our Lady of Good Voyages holds her son.Her other hand offers a model ship-the Santa Maria looked that small to God.We stopped for gas. Outside I found a phone.”Mama, I´m married. Papa, I love you both.

We´re on our own.”